


So Red a Colour

by sternenblumen



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Hurt Constance, Hurt d'Artagnan, Hurt/Comfort, Pining, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-25 17:48:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20029840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternenblumen/pseuds/sternenblumen
Summary: Old ghosts rear their head at the sight of the colour red and a body falling to the ground ...Or:d'Artagnan tries to save Constance from attackers but his gamble to free her almost has disastrous consequences for both of them.





	So Red a Colour

**Author's Note:**

> I was attacked by this plot bunny a while ago, and it wouldn't leave me alone! Just because I was thinking about Constagnan and that I'd like to write something about d'Artagnan and Constance because their relationship is my favourite romantic 'ship on the show ... So have a random one-shot set in early S2 (pre-2x06 but after d'Artagnan and Constance have made up). Hope you enjoy!

It was a normal day guarding Their Majesties. Just a small outing – the King, a servant by his side, the Queen, accompanied by Constance and a servant girl, so four Musketeers were deemed sufficient for their security. They had taken a short ride in the woods beyond the Palace gardens and then had returned to a pavilion set up in a particularly nice spot – really, how anyone could make such a distinction in the lush environment of the Palace grounds was beyond him, but apparently it was indeed a very nice spot – to take some refreshments. All in all, it had been a boring but very enjoyable day. There even was no sign of Rochefort or anyone else who could darken the mood.

d'Artagnan could not suppress a satisfied smile as he looked over to Constance, and her eyes sparkled over the edge of her fan as she met his gaze. He marvelled at being able to do this again. It was not what he wanted, and he knew, he knew, neither was it what she wanted, regardless of her words to the contrary. But he could live with being her friend if he could not be anything else.

An elbow hit his ribs, and he winced. “Hey!”

“Stand watch now, make moon eyes at our lovely friend later,” Athos drawled to the sound of Aramis and Porthos snickering.

The Gascon rubbed his side and glared at his friends. “I was not--”

Porthos snorted. “Nah, you certainly weren't. You were just thinkin' deep thoughts and not noticin' you were starin' at Constance.”

“Well, I'm pretty sure he's able to stare at Constance and still – no, never mind, I think staring at Constance precludes the danger of any deep thoughts entering his mind pretty effectively,” Aramis returned the banter, lazily playing with the end of his mustache and offering a charming smile to Constance when she looked over to them, her attention drawn by their conversation.

d'Artagnan rolled his eyes and resolved to just ignore their teasing for now. It was good background noise, at the least, given how uneventful the day was turning out.

Of course, it always was a normal day guarding Their Majesties until it wasn't.

It was a split second between Athos' shout: “Down!” and the crack of a musket, and a ball tore through the fabric of the pavilion above the King's head just as he ducked. Porthos shoved him to the ground, crouching over him, as d'Artagnan did the same with the Queen. There was another burst of noise, and two more balls came whistling past but went wide of anyone who might have been their target.

Athos sprang back up. “Aramis, with me! Porthos, d'Artagnan, take Their Majesties back to the Palace, now!” he ordered, already sprinting towards the direction the shots had come from before he had even finished the sentence. Aramis was on his heels a moment later, and Porthos and d'Artagnan scrambled to their feet and helped the King and Queen up. They led them back to the Palace, all but tugging them along by the hand, a lack of decorum that never would be appropriate in any situation but this one. Constance and the servants were left to follow by themselves though d'Artagnan spared a look back at them a few times. Constance was pale but keeping up gamely, lending a hand to the servant girl when she stumbled.

They were almost there when a group of men burst from the edge of the trees, racing towards them. Porthos' eyes met d'Artagnan's, then he gave a wordless bellow and drew his sword. No use trying to outrun them, and d'Artagnan followed suit, both Musketeers taking position in front of the others, shielding them with their bodies. Steel clashed, and d'Artagnan lost himself in the familiar movements, honed in hours upon hours of training with Athos and his friends, as chaos descended. His sword found an opening in his opponent's defense, and he went down hard. He pivoted, intercepted a blade coming at him from the side, backed up a step until he felt his brother's presence behind him, bound the attacker's blade with his own, drew his main gauche, stabbed it into the man's side, that's another one down. He tried to keep everyone in his field of view, the King and Queen were behind him, there's another one coming at him, and he met him with a quick stroke of his sword, the strength of the hit reverberating up his arm. This one was better, and he was trying to herd him off to the side, separate him from Porthos, but d'Artagnan was fast and danced around him, pulling back and then dashing forward, the man opposite him cursing up a blue streak as he was forced to give ground to the whirlwind attacking him. Thrust, parry, again and again, and finally, there was an opening, and his sword found it target again--

d'Artagnan stood still, breathing hard. No one else was coming at him, and after a moment, he dared to look around. The King and Queen were clutching at each other behind Porthos' broad back, and the servant was on the ground, broken eyes staring into the sky. The young servant girl was next to him, cowering in fright but seemingly unhurt, and Constance--

A sharp cry rent the air. Constance was held by a man, flanked by a second, and they were pulling her away. She was struggling in the man's grip but it was futile. d'Artagnan hesitated for a moment – he knew his duty. One glance decided him, though, as he saw men come running towards them, most of them in the Palace Guard's uniform but a few Red Guards among them, and there was even Musketeer blue flashing between them. He threw himself around and took off after the two men.

He could hear Porthos call his name, he knew Athos would be angry with him, but it didn't stop him. He was gaining fast on them, Constance was still struggling and slowing them down. But there was a knife in the hand of the man holding her, he saw when he was close enough, and it had already torn through the fabric of her dress and was scratching thin red lines in her pale skin with every movement.

The men stopped just as he was close enough to pull his pistol, though he did not know if he could shoot without endangering Constance, and turned around to face him. The man pulled Constance close, his face pressed into the wild hair that had tumbled from her hairnet. “Stop, Musketeer!” he called out.

d'Artagnan slowed down, still taking a few steps towards them, his pistol extended and pointed at the man holding Constance. “Let her go!” he demanded.

The man smiled unpleasantly. “I don't think I will,” he replied. “We've not got what we came here for but the Queen will probably still pay handsomely for her lady. Or her husband will.”

d'Artagnan shook his head. “You have no leg to stand on.” His eyes sought Constance's gaze, silently asking for her forgiveness as he continued: “She's not one of the Queen's ladies – just a commoner, a nobody.”

“Is that so? Then why's she so close to the Queen and not dressed like a servant?”

“The Queen likes having one of them around.” d'Artagnan swallowed – his words were untrue and also treasonous, slandering Her Majesty like that, but it would be worth it if they bought Constance's freedom. “It makes her feel generous and grand, and they amuse her. You'd have more success pressing her for money capturing one of her lap dogs.”

The man sneered. “Well then.” Something cruel flashed through his eyes, and in this moment, d'Artagnan realised he had made a mistake. “I guess she's useless, then.” 

Constance, wonderful, courageous, foolish Constance, chose just this moment to act, stomping down on the man's foot and throwing back her elbow into his throat. But his hand holding the knife was already in motion, and the blade found her side and plunged into it.

“No!” d'Artagnan shouted and sprang forwards. His hands grasped her, tearing her from the man's grip, and there was a spray of bright, thick red gracefully following the arch of her fall to the ground …  
He was on top of the man, and he didn't know where his pistol was, his rapier, anything, but his fists met flesh, and a sob tore from his throat as he hit the man again, and again. His mind was full with that bright, terrible red and the image of a body falling to the ground, his vision blurring.

Suddenly, pain erupted in his back, racing up to engulf his torso, and he fell forward on the man below him. His limbs were suddenly numb and heavy, refusing to work, and darkness rose swiftly to swallow him.

* * *

It was a second pain that brought him back from the darkness, and he bucked wildly against it, crying out. Strong hands on his shoulders were pinning him down as he scrabbled at the surface he was lying on, fingers scratching over wood.

“Calm, d'Artagnan,” a voice said above his head. “You're alright, don't fight it. I know it hurts but Lemay will be finished soon.” It took his sluggish, half-panicked mind a moment to recognise Athos' cool voice, calm as ever, even though there was some underlying worry and tension in his tone.

With effort, d'Artagnan stilled his movements and opened his eyes. He was lying on his belly on some wooden surface, maybe a table. The intense agony that had pulled him back to consciousness had died down to a band of burning pain around his lower back, and he could feel other hands besides those belonging to Athos on his body, at his hips and legs. When he lifted his head, Athos' face swam into view. The older man was crouched in front of him so their faces were at the same height, and he gave him a tight half-smile. “Welcome back,” he said in a low voice.

“Athos,” d'Artagnan rasped, his voice hoarse and painful in a dry throat. “Wha--” Craning his head around, he saw Dr. Lemay standing beside him, and further away, towards the end of the table, was Porthos, so it had to be his hands on this legs.

Athos gently grasped his head and turned it around again. “Let the doctor finish, lad,” he said strictly, “before you bleed out on us. I'm glad you're back with us but you need to keep still.” Looking over d'Artagnan's head, he nodded at Lemay.

D'Artagnan tensed when the sharp prick of a needle piercing his skin shot through him but Athos had him by the shoulders again, and there was no way he could get away from the pain, so he closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. He tried sorting through his murky memory – he didn't even remember how he had been wounded … When the realisation of what was wrong with the picture he'd found hit him, his head shot up; pain sliced through him as the sudden movement jerked at Dr. Lemay's needle and jarred his wound but he paid it no heed. “Aramis?” he asked tremulously.

Athos shook his head with something like exasperated fondness. “Keep still,” he ordered again. “He's fine, he's--”

“Oh my God, no,” d'Artagnan interrupted him, a memory asserting itself – a body falling, red, red blood in the sunlight … “Constance,” he moaned. “He killed her.” His eyes filled with tears, a trembling taking over his limbs. “And it's my fault.”

Athos jerked, raising his head to glance at someone over his head, then squatted down before him again. He took his chin into his hand, a thumb stroking over his cheek to wipe away the first tears rolling down. “No, d'Artagnan,” he said, his voice calm and strong. “She's not dead.”

“But--” d'Artagnan looked up at him as hope and despair warred within him. “He stabbed her.”

The older Musketeer nodded. “Yes, she was hurt. But she is alive,” he assured him. “Aramis is with her. She will be fine.”

“Athos,” the young doctor's voice interrupted him. Athos looked up at him, nodded, then met d'Artagnan's eyes again. “Now, please lay still,” he repeated. “It will be over soon.”

d'Artagnan attempted to nod but found that the tremors running through him were getting stronger. He blinked, dark spots starting to appear before his eyes. “Athos--” His voice was thin and strange.

“d'Artagnan!” Athos barked and grabbed his shoulders. “Don't--”

But d'Artagnan never heard what he said next as he was pulled under again.

* * *

This time he surfaced slowly, adrift in the shallows of unconsciousness for what felt like ages. There was no pain, just a curious heaviness weighing him down. He probably would have remained that way, except for the fact that someone was – rather annoyingly – tapping his cheek and calling his name.

“Come on, d'Artagnan,” the voice said, “You've slept long enough. Open your eyes for me, will you?”

He furrowed his brow and tossed his head weakly to get away from the touch.

“That's it, come back to us,” the voice continued to wheedle and press him. “If you open your eyes, I will stop, I promise.”

It felt like a monumental effort, but he dragged his lids upwards to half-mast. The image above him crystallised into Aramis' face, and for a reason he could not remember right now, a wave of relief washed through him. His eyes threatened to slide shut again.

“Ah-ah-ah.” Aramis shook his head at him. “I need you to stay awake for me for a bit.”

d'Artagnan frowned up at him and opened his mouth, a weak cough escaping before he found his voice. “You pro--” he coughed again, “you promised.” The words were slurred and barely audible but he hoped his annoyance at the pestering was still perceivable. He just wanted to sleep until he no longer felt so heavy …

Aramis' eyes danced with laughter. “I promised to stop tapping your cheek, and I'm keeping my promise,” the medic replied, and there was a snort in the background that sounded a lot like Porthos. “Come on, lad, I know you must be thirsty.” He gently raised d'Artagnan's head and made a gesture to someone else. A cup appeared in his field of vision and was placed against his lips, and despite his exhaustion, he opened his mouth eagerly. He hadn't noticed it before but his thirst was roaring to life with a vengeance at the sight and smell of the fresh water in the cup.

“Careful,” Aramis cautioned as he tipped the cup to his mouth, but despite the warning, d'Artagnan nearly choked on the first sip and erupted into a series of coughs that left him out of breath. A terrible ache was waking up in his back, and his head spun.

Aramis frowned at him compassionately, taking the cup away, and a hand – he did not know whose – rubbed his back between his shoulder blades, first alerting him consciously to the fact that he was not on his back but on his side. Aramis waited until he had recovered, then cupped his cheek again and returned the cup. “Let's try that again, shall we?” he said patiently. “Slowly, this time.”

With effort, d'Artagnan managed to do as he was told, and he was rewarded with the most wonderful feeling of cool water sliding down his throat. After a few sips, he let his head fall back and breathed deeply. The water had chased away some of the dryness in his throat and the fuzzy feeling in his head – though far from recovered, he felt as if he could at least manage to stay awake for a bit longer. 

“Thanks,” he said, trying to give Aramis a smile. It felt as if he was succeeding partially, at least.

The medic returned the smile. “You're welcome,” he said brightly.

He seemed content enough to let d'Artagnan get his bearings, now that he didn't threaten to slip back into unconsciousness right away, so the younger Musketeer did just that. “Athos? Porthos?” he finally asked.

At the question, the hand on his back returned, and Athos' voice behind him said: “We're here, d'Artagnan.” At the same time, heavy steps indicated that Porthos had taken a more physical approach to answering the question, and indeed, the large Musketeer appeared beside Aramis a moment later, pulling a chair up to the bed and dropping into it. “There you are,” he greeted him with a fond smile. “'bout time, lazy bones. How're you feelin'?”

d'Artagnan considered for a moment to give his usual answer, but besides the fact that his friends would never believe him, he had to admit to not feeling particularly fine right now. “Tired,” he answered. “'n my back hurts. How ...” He moved his hand towards the spot on his right lower back that was aching so fiercely but before he could reach it, Athos caught his hand and returned it to his hip, keeping his hand on his wrist and easily preventing him from any further movement. “I don't 'member ...”

“You don't remember being shot?” Athos asked. When he shook his head, he felt his mentor giving his wrist a short squeeze. “I'm afraid we cannot help you there, either. When we arrived at the scene, Constance and you were alone. There was no time to search for the perpetrators, we had to take care of you first.”

Aramis nodded. “Your unique brand of luck still holds true, my friend,” he informed him wryly. “Dr. Lemay says the bullet did not hit anything vital, which is a miracle in itself. Still, you were bleeding badly, and Constance was not much better off.”

d'Artagnan squeezed his eyes shut, momentarily overwhelmed by the memory of all that red covering Constance's lithe frame. He felt Aramis' hand at his face again and forced his eyes to open. His friend was studying him with worry in his dark eyes. “Is the pain very bad? I can--”

d'Artagnan quickly shook his head. He knew Aramis' pain draught would send him under again, and he found that he wanted to know all that his brothers could tell him first. “Constance, is she--?” he asked, half afraid of the answer, though he remembered well enough that Athos had told him that she lived.

“She is alright,” Aramis reassured him. “The wound was not a dangerous one, she was just also losing blood and in shock – I stitched her up, and she is doing well. Maybe you'd like to see her?” He waited for his weak nod before looking at Porthos. Without a word, the dark-skinned man got to his feet and left the room.

d'Artagnan blew out another relieved breath. He would probably feel afraid for her until he could see her with his own eyes – and guilty, he definitely felt that – but Aramis' answer helped quiet down the anxiety somewhat. Suddenly, he started. “The second man!” he exclaimed, then gasped at the pain radiating through his back at the sudden movement.

“Shhh, calm,” Aramis murmured, stroking his hair back from his forehead, and Athos gave his wrist another squeeze. It was the older man who asked: “A second man? What do you mean?”

d'Artagnan closed his eyes for a moment to ride out the pain, then opened them again and turned his head to squint in Athos' direction, though he could not really see his face, sitting behind him as he was. “They had Constance and were pulling her away,” he replied, “but when I started to talk to the one holding her ...” Shame burned his cheeks red. “I completely forgot to pay attention to him. Maybe he was the one who shot me. And the one who had Constance – he was gone, too?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Athos said. His tone did not give away what he was thinking about d'Artagnan's explanation, and he wished he could see his face properly. Would he ever feel secure enough not to fear to disappoint him? “Constance only could tell us what happened up to the point where she was injured, so I suspect there will always be a gap there if you don't remember everything.”

Aramis delicately picked up d'Artagnan's hand, which Athos surrendered readily, and brought it forward. “Do you remember why your hands look like you beat up a whole band of thugs?” he asked. 

d'Artagnan felt his eyebrows rise in surprise when he saw the bandages wrapping his knuckles. “Not a whole band,” he said sheepishly. “Only the one who had stabbed Constance.” He freed his hand from Aramis' grip and used it to rub across his face. “I pulled her off him after that, and then--” He swallowed, again remembering the red, red, red, and Constance's body falling bonelessly. “I don't—I don't really know, I only saw her blood, and then I was hitting him, and then—then pain and darkness ...”

“Well, we can assume that you were shot then,” Athos surmised, “and the second man presumably came to collect your opponent so they could flee together. It is a good thing none of them stopped to make sure you were dead.”

d'Artagnan nodded miserably. It was just luck he hadn't gotten himself and Constance killed …

Aramis patted his cheek. “Don't make such a long face,” he chided lightly. “You did what you could, and you'll both be fine.” He collected the water cup again and brought it forward. “Now, be a good patient and have some more water, will you? You've lost a lot of blood, so you need it.”

Before d'Artagnan could decide whether he wanted to argue his failure or whether the cool water was the much more pressing need, Porthos came back, supporting Constance with a strong arm around her waist. He carefully deposited her on the chair next to Aramis and then stepped back.

D'Artagnan forgot about everything else and just drank in her sight, feeling the last lingering fear that she was dead after all, that he had caused her death, slip away. Her fair skin was even lighter than normal, with dark bruises under her eyes, and he could see that her corset was not cinched tight around her small waist like usual but just laced tight enough that her dress would not slip, and there was a bulky padding beneath it on her left side. But she was smiling at him and reached out a hand to stroke over his shoulder. “I'm so glad you're awake,” she told him. “I've been worried.”

He caught her hand and pulled it to his face, pressed his lips to her knuckles. “I'm sorry,” he murmured. “For everything.”

“What?” She arched an eyebrow at him – different than Athos but just about as eloquent. “Everything?”

“For what I said – you know it's not true, Her Majesty loves you,” he tried to explain, “and you—you're everything, Constance, you could never be a nobody. I was just hoping he would let you go when he realised that he had nothing to gain from you.” He snorted bitterly. “And look how that turned out.”

He almost suspected that she'd slapped him if he wasn't injured. “You're an idiot!” she said, exasperated. “Of course I know that you didn't mean a word you said.” Then her eyes softened, as did her voice when she continued: “And never apologise for believing that people can be something other than cruel.”

d'Artagnan tried to smile, for her, and squeezed her hand. “I still think I should put my belief in the goodness of man into someone more worthwhile,” he murmured. “Not in masked men attacking the King and capturing women.”

She giggled, shaking her head. “Probably, yes,” she agreed.

d'Artagnan felt his smile grow a bit stronger. He brought her hand to his cheek, relishing the touch when she cupped his cheek, a thumb lightly tracing his cheekbones. “I'm so glad you're alright. I thought he had killed you.”

Constance was quiet for a moment, then she leaned forward and brushed her lips over his forehead. “I'm alright,” she whispered, “I promise I'm alright.”

He hummed, closing his eyes. The heaviness that had hovered at the edge of his perception for all the while he had been awake was settling into his body again, and he thought he could go to sleep like this again, with her hand on his cheek, her voice in his ears.

Soon, too soon, though, her hand vanished, and he gave a short, low whine at the loss of her touch. Porthos laughed, and d'Artagnan forced his eyes open again to glare at his brother.

“Oy, don't you gimme that look,” Porthos said, unabashed, as he was helping Constance up. “And don't mope, Constance still needs her rest, too.”

“I don't mope,” d'Artagnan retorted indignantly, though he then looked to Constance a bit contritely. “I'm sorry.”

The young woman sighed. “There's nothing to apologise for,” she returned firmly. “Now rest, and get better soon. I'll come visit you again, alright?” With a last smile, she allowed Porthos to lead her out of the room.

Aramis leaned forward and brushed his hair back, checking his temperature with a hand on his forehead. “Alright, I'd say that's good enough for today,” he said resolutely. “Now you'll have some more water and then some of my pain draught, and then you can go back to sleep.”

d'Artagnan nodded and quietly accepted Aramis' help in drinking the water and the foul-tasting medicine, then settled back down. Soon enough, he drifted off to sleep – and his dreams were blessedly free of the colour red.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't forgotten about Bad Luck, I promise - the next chapter is written and awaiting being typed up/edited. Hopefully, it will be up soon.
> 
> As always, if you choose to leave a kudos or a comment, it would make my day!


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